


Lee

by GreenBird



Series: Volsung [1]
Category: Django Unchained
Genre: Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Other, Polyamory, handjob, sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 14:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenBird/pseuds/GreenBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's cold in the mountains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vodka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodka/gifts).



> I love this trope so much. (I grew up in the north, trust me, in real life this yields fantastic results B3)
> 
> So, I can't figure out if they were in the Smoky Mountains or the Rockies- sure as hell looked like the Rockies, but what they were doing that far west is a bit confusing for me. W/e.
> 
> I tried to keep this all in one 'tense, but I am a fucking time traveler. EDIT: Fixed some repetitive shit I somehow missed the first time so it reads a little smoother.

* * *

 

 

The winter was more aggressive than King remembered. Django had never dealt with heavy snowfall, and the mountains were making sure he was becoming well learned. It was late November, and they’d spent the last few weeks hunting the Wilson-Lowe gang, trailing them from town to town, following up on leads. The six thousand dollar bounty on the lot of them was worth the travel, and they’d picked up a few hundred-dollar bounties on the side. Their new information had them traveling north, through a particularly unwelcoming mountain pass.

The weather worsened in the late afternoon, and the going became slow. Fritz and Tony huffed and lowed as the going became harder, growing weary as they broke through the fresh fallen snow. Poncho lagged behind, carrying their packs, covered in white powder.

They were twenty miles outside of Crane Creek when night crept in on them. Django found a suitable campsite against a rock face, skirted by tall pines that further broke up the wind. The snow was shallow in the shelter of the cliff, and they cleared away a patch for a fire and bedding. Dinner was a spit rabbit and potatoes, and King and Django huddled close to the cook fire and spoke between bites.

“I have had my fair share of interesting bounty collections.” King's breath huffed out in generous clouds as he talked. The doctor could fill an entire book of stories, and Django never seemed to mind them. “I caught a few men in the bath more than once. I think the most intrusive capture I had was of a one Forrest Wittman, convicted murderer and bank robber. He was an unsavory fellow. I had to hunt for him in the most salacious places,” King said, finishing off his dinner and tossing his tin next to the fire. He buried his hands into his coat. “I finally caught up to him in a house of ill repute, and, let me just say, he was quite indisposed.”

Django forked his last steaming potato and spoke through his chewing. “You didn’t up and shoot him there, did you?”

King gave Django an incredulous look. “Surely not. How rude would it be for that poor woman, she was only doing her job. Shooting a man on top of her, that would be improper.”

“Whatja do?”

“Well, I was a little harsh with removing him, I think, but I did drag him outside before ensuring my bounty.” King chuckled into the fur of his collar, but a shiver interrupted his laugh. “I made sure she was paid for her troubles. He was a homely looking cretin.”

Django hummed, but King could see his subtle smile. They sat in silence a moment and soaked in what little warmth the fire offered. After a few minutes, even the flame wasn’t enough to stave off the cold. The snow had stopped and the sky had cleared, which only meant the chill was about to get even worse.

King blew hard into his hands. “My boy, I think, perhaps we should call it a night.” His voice stuttered with effort as he rolled out his bedding. Django did the same. They kicked off their boots and laid down as close to the fire as they could.

King curled into himself, rubbing his hands together under the covers. His fur jacket was spread over his blanket, but he continued to shake. He must have been chilled making dinner, must have stood exposed for too long. His teeth clicked together after a particularly hard shiver, and soon, they were chattering steadily. He groaned in frustration and rubbed his arms harder to warm them. He could only build the fire so high.

The wind brushed over the snow banks, and whistled further up at the tops of the trees. The noise was nothing next to the ruckus he made, and after only a few moments Django spoke up.

“You be chippin teeth with that chatterin.”

“I’m fine,” King quipped, unable to smooth his stammer, “I grew up with summers far colder than this.” Germany was not a warm country by any means, but he had spent the last four years with southern summers. Apparently his tolerance had suffered.

“You was inside most of the time, I bet.” Django sat up, unafraid of the air’s bite. His scarf was wrapped high on his head, covering his ears and mouth. He worked it down to speak better. “We lost them extra blankets last bounty, what with the blood all over ‘em. You said we’d be to town ‘fore dark.”

“Yes, that estimate might have been shortsighted,” King groused, huffing white clouds into the air. “We will simply have to pick some more up in Crane Creek when we get there tomorrow morning. The snow slowed us down, and I did not plan on getting delayed at the crossing.” Part of the river had broken up, making them detour to find a frozen bridge further upstream. The deviation had cost them the hours they needed to reach the next town, and the night was too cold for travel.

“Och,” King complained, fighting a shake. “A cup of hot soup and a real bearskin would suit me very well right now.”

Django heaved himself up, slow in the cold, and gathered his bedding. “You got furs.” He sidled his way around the fire and threw his blankets next to the doctor’s. “You’ll make due,” he said, toeing the fabric closer, closing the gap between their bedrolls. King gave him a curious look, but Django nestled down without further comment. After a minor adjustment, he lifted his blanket.

“You best lean in.”

King made a small noise of protest. “Django, there is no reason for us both to be uncomfortable. I will be fine.” A shiver shook the end of his sentence, nullifying it.

“Lean in.”

King put up a moment of protest, but the cold was convincing and Django was not lowering the blanket. He was a stubborn man, and they would both freeze if he refused the offer. Pulling his covers with him, he wriggled inward. Django met him halfway, and draped the blanket and the fur coat over the both of them. King was unsure how to situate himself. Sharing beds for warmth was an old trick to get some sordid attentions, and he’d used it to his advantage a few times in Germany’s winters. He wanted to maintain proper distance, but Django seemed to have no qualms about contact. He pressed his chest gently to the doctor’s back, and carefully wrapped his arm over King’s ribs. They laid a moment in silence, tucking the corners to keep the heat in and cautiously adjusted their legs. After a moment, King felt the difference in temperature, and sighed happily.

“Thank you.”

They settled in and listened to the fire talk in hisses and pops. Fritz nickered to Tony and Poncho. All three horses were pressed close for warmth, necks bowed. Not for the first time, King missed his cart. It may not have been roomy, but it had been more comfortable when it was free of dead bodies. He shifted against the hardness of the ground, trying to dislodge a rock against his hip. Next to him, Django was completely still. He was most likely used to sleeping where he laid, so a thin bedroll was a luxury. King made a displeased noise at the thought.

“I imagine you’re used to being right out in the elements,” he muttered, wriggling again, Django’s arm tightened momentarily. “My cart was little protection, but I believe I am spoilt.”

“Snow is new,” Django muttered to King’s back. “Used to cold, though. Used to hot. Used to bein bare naked. Privacy is for white folk.”

King fought the way his mouth twisted at that. He always felt a little nauseous when he was reminded of the way things worked, when he remembered the advantage his skin gave him. With just the two of them, it was so easy to forget. “Ghastly business,” he commented in general. He could feel Django half-shrug behind him.

“Says a murderin man.”

It wasn’t meant to be mean. He knew it wasn’t, but he scoffed anyway. “They nearly always deserve it. The men I shoot are robbers and rapists and killers of innocent men.”

“That’s every white man in the south,” Django said, “well, every man but one I suppose.” He tucked his head a little, and bumped it against King’s. The doctor felt his face warm, and tightened his arm around the one against his ribs.

“Thank you for agreeing to stay with me, Django.”

Django buried his face further, pressing his nose against the back of the doctor’s neck. King jumped from the cold, but the sting was immediately abated by a warm exhale and the gentle rasp of a beard.

“You’ll be helping me get back Hildie. You pay me. Why would I go?”

King couldn’t help but try to turn his head, but Django managed to find a warm spot in the lee of his shoulder, and didn’t bother moving. “Django, I know it’s hard to trust someone like me, but I hope you don’t just think of me as your employer or your liberator. I hope you think of me as your friend.”

King’s movement had him leaning back more, shoulder resting against his cohort’s. Django’ breath was damp and pleasant against the doctor’s throat. King enjoyed the small intimacy.

“Barely had any friends before.” His voice was a smooth, low hum, more felt than heard. “But if I was to have one, you’d be it.”

The doctor couldn’t help but smile and pat his hand against the one pressed to his chest. He hadn’t noticed it moved. “I like you, too.”

Django tried to kill the small laugh that bubbled in this throat, but King was too close to miss it. He smiled and chuckled, wriggling his way onto his back, trapping one of Django’s arms under him. It was pleasant under the blankets, and Django’s chest and belly were warm against his side.

“My goodness,” King hummed, “you are a furnace, aren’t you? It’s not only your temper that burns hot.” He reached around with the hand he’d had against the ground, and pressed the cold tips of his fingers against Django’s neck, under his scarf. The other man hissed and glared at him reproachfully, slapping his hand on the doctor’s chest. The hit echoed in his ribs, but wasn’t painful.  King’s laughter vibrated through them both.

Usurped from his comfortable nest in the doctor’s neck, Django settled into their new position, face still close to his bedfellow’s. With King on his back, Django’s arms bracketed him.

“When I get Hildie back,” he said, voice determined, “you can come with us. North.”

Whatever King expected to hear, it wasn’t that. His face went slack in surprise for only a second, but it was long enough to put a line of tension in Django’s forehead. King disbanded the look with a smile. “West,” he amended, “- we’ll go west to the new territories. There’s money to be made out there, and the coast is for free men.” He had mentioned New York before, but Django’s skill with a gun had him reconsidering. California was new and open and away from the mess. Everyone knew California was green valleys and gold rivers. Where there was plenty, there were plenty of thieves to be turned over. “That is, if your wife won’t mind.”

Django shrugged. “She’ll like you just fine.”

That hadn’t been what he meant, but he was still happy to hear it.

“It be easier with you with us, anyway,” Django added, “with the papers and all.”

“You mean to make me vouch for you?” A free black couple would be in danger on their journey through the territories, and papers would only go so far. An educated white man was a sort of insurance plan.

Django cut into his line of thought. “I know ya don’t like it.”

“No,” he agreed, “I don’t. But it is less likely that someone would hurt you two if you have an escort.” It was the right thing to do: help Siegfried rescue Broomhilda, help them find their happily ever after. Kill some miscreants and sell their bodies back to the government for money. His life had become a fairy tale. It was hard to think he’s spent all those years pulling teeth. King sighed and rolled his shoulders. “You’ll made me into a responsible, decent man.”

Django hummed in thought, and King turned to look at him. “You been a decent man,” he said, holding his gaze.

“Not as decent as I should have been.” He had owned Django for a few weeks only, but it was a thing that burdened his mind. His search for the Brittle Brothers clouded his better judgment. He knew Django didn’t hold it against him, couldn’t see a shred of resentment in his dark eyes. Django was a rough man, tough and beaten and vicious and clever, and he was his friend, now. For that, King was eternally thankful.

“You know,” he said, “I had plans before you came along. I was going to get rich and die alone.”

“That first part can work just fine.” Django’s voice was hushed with him so close, and in the quiet it became that much warmer. “As for the rest, well, you’ll be comin with me.” King’s stomach clenched, and he realized that there was a hand pressed to his belly, fingers spread wide in a broad stroke.

“Yes,” the doctor breathed, “I suppose I will.”

Django’s eyes stayed on him as his hand rubbed, back and forth, back and forth, warm and heavy over his jacket. King felt a button come undone. He shivered.

“Cold?”

“No.”

More buttons came loose, exposing his shirt underneath. He had taken off the vest and suit jacket for sleep, and under his wool coat he was in his shirt and knit thermals. Django’s palm slid down his belly and the tips of his fingers traced the top hem of his trousers. King was all but frozen in surprise until the hand lifted and came down again, lower.

Django touch was a brand even through his clothes, and the doctor let lose a small gasp and canted his hips. He felt his blood rush downward, heat collecting in his thighs and groin. King’s head grew fuzzy at the sudden change, and he hummed in encouragement as Django kneaded his hand against him. The doctor rocked into the touch, dazed and warm.

However, when clever fingers found their way to naked flesh, King’s mind cleared like a crowd during a gunfight. His hand shot down to catch Django’s wrist, stop further exploration. King was all for a bit of a grope under the furs, but he didn’t know what to think of this. Was he trying to offer a favor? King had been lonesome, certainly, not partial to purchasing company and not keen to hunt it down, but he wasn’t about to accept pay. Men did hellish things to slaves, and Django was a handsome man. He couldn’t have been exempt. The thought made him ill.

“My friend, you don’t owe me anything. I…”

“Imma a free man,” Django growled, cutting him off. He leaned forward, lifting himself to loom over King. Django was not a dumb man, observant and quick on the pick up, and apparently, very good at reading Dr. King Schultz. “I’m my own man.” His hand squeezed, and the doctor couldn’t help but twitch his hips up in response. “You ain’t makin me do anythin.”

A small, strangled noise worked its way out of King’s throat. He let go of Django’s wrist, and was rewarded with a generous pull of his cock. Django was sure of himself, and that was enough to send the doctor’s head reeling. One important detail clung to his mind and managed to work its way out of his mouth.

“Your wife…”

“She’ll like you.” King realized, belatedly, that Django had meant that in very inclusive way. She would like him the way Django liked him, and he was planning to keep them both. “And I be bettin you’ll like her.”

“Oh…” King breathed, reveling in the drag of calloused fingers on him, “Gott.” It was dry, but good, deft fingers working over the head, keeping steady pace. Django bumped his groin to King’s hip, and the doctor couldn’t get his hand down to accept the invitation fast enough.

He’d seen his partner bare before, several times, and even though he couldn’t see him now, the feel of his heavy cock in his hand was so much more intimate than he imagined. He mapped Django out, exploring his heft and length, fondling his scrotum. He felt wonderful and whole- King had been worried: some people mutilated slaves. The thought made him wince, but Django’s firm hand took it away from him, working him at a steadily growing pace.

Django had always been a quiet fellow, and King was certainly not. His breathing slowly escalated into gasps, which turned into moans at every exhale. He wasn’t going to last long, not at the pace that was being set. Django buried his face back into King’s neck, and muttered small, low noises like he was soothing his horse.

“Ah,” King exhaled, rocking his hips in time with Django’s hand, “das is herrlich. Ich liebe es.” He whimpered at a particularly smart twist of the wrist, and flushed darker: he was nearly panting, while Django was relaxed beside him.  King was no greenhorn; he knew how to work a man. He most likely had more experience than his companion. King adjusted his grip and put more effort into his end, treasuring the slide of foreskin against his palm, swiping his thumb at the exposed cockhead. He was rewarded with a resonating groan under his ear.

The noise was enough to finish him, and he came with a contented sigh, body shaking in pleasure. His hand didn’t slow, and Django was quick to follow, lips pressed against the doctor’s neck, wet hand gripping his exposed hip.

He was happy to lay quiet for a moment, sticky with a damp palm and cum-smeared belly. He thought on the location of his handkerchief when Django wiped his mess on the edge of the blanket, and grabbed his hand to do the same. King squawked unhappily.

“Django, we already established we have too few of these. What good does it do us for you to ruin one?”

Django had not moved his head, and when he spoke King could feel his lips move. “You said we gunna buy more.”

“Well yes, but that does not mean…”

“Hush,” Django grumbled, half asleep. “You gunna be worse than my wife.” The gentle squeeze to his ribs translated the sentence into an endearment. “You supposed to be more agreeable after all that.”

King chuckled and let it go. He was not about to be a man’s wife, but he was- something, wasn’t he? Django’s breaths evened out in slumber, and King felt the heavy pull of sleep that came from being warm and sated and safe. He had a gun at one side and a reliable partner at the other. The wind picked up slightly, blowing cold powder over the tops of the snow banks and buffeting the fireplace.

He didn’t feel it.


End file.
